Apologize
by elenwyn
Summary: “Peter?” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible even to his hearing, but the sound was like a heavenly chorus to Peter’s ears. She was alive. He hadn’t killed her. She was alive. Set during Five Years Gone. Paire.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N:** This is set in the AU future Five Years Gone. I'm experimenting with a new style, sort of, and it's my first go at writing Claire. I wrote this whilst listening to Timbaland's new song; it turned out differently to what I'd planned in the beginning. Tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer:** All things Heroes belong to Tim Kring.

* * *

"_Do it, Claire!"_

_Tears stream down her face; hands shaking and cold from the weight of the weapon in her hands. Oh, God – is he really making her do this? How could she possibly do this?_

"_Claire!"_

_Takes one deep breath, steadies her hands, and doesn't look him in the eye._

"_I'm sorry."_

_-------_

It's the second time that week Claire Bennet, or Sandra, as she now calls herself, wakes up in a cold sweat with screams and sirens resounding in her head and a guilty conscience in her heart.

Her screams.

_His_ screams.

The whole damn _world's_ screams as it burned and the light got brighter and, Jesus, why didn't she just pull the trigger in the first place?

An arm snakes around her shoulders and she flinches at the touch, until she realises it's only Andy, disturbed by her own awakening, checking to see if she's alright.

"Shh, darlin'. Just another nightmare."

His hands are rubbing soothing circles on her back but the friction just makes Claire even more uncomfortable and she pulls away, mumbling something incoherent about getting a drink of water but what she really wants to do is open the window and _jump_ because she's fed up of these dreams, this life and this _lie_ she's living day in and day out.

She sighs and now feels even more guilt on her conscience as Andy's only trying to help, and it's not his fault he can't understand why she's always so distant and brooding; why she doesn't really belong to him.

Because it's _Sandra_ that Andy loves, has asked to marry, and that little band of gold around her finger feels heavier each day as Claire realises she can't be _Sandra_ anymore, not for much longer.

All she wants to be is _Claire_ and _his_, and heaven only knows if things were different, if they were living in some sort of alternate universe, she'd be able to get what she wanted, just for once.

The cool water coming out of the tap and the taste of icy glass on her lips calms her down slightly, makes her refocus her thoughts. Leaning against the metal of the refrigerator, Claire, or Sandra, or whoever-the-hell-she-is-nowadays, runs a hand through her straight, brown hair – wasn't it blonde once? Blonde and curly at the ends? – and just _breathes._ Sometimes she wishes she could fly instead of regenerate because she'd like nothing more just now than to take off into the sky and forget about everything that's happened over the past five years. But thinking about flying always brings her thoughts back to her bio-dad and to_ him_ and Claire's heart constricts so painfully she'd think she was having a heart attack were it not for the fact that she can't die.

And – dear God – what's happened to the girl whose only worry was if Jackie didn't approve of her new outfit? Of whose only pressure was that of her school work? She's gone from the age of sixteen to a hundred and sixty in the space of five years, a girl to and old woman in a young girl's body wondering what the hell she did to deserve all this.

She's going to have to go back to Andy soon; he worries about her and Claire thinks it's cute, that _he's_ cute, but it's not the same. It's just not the same, and although he makes her feel safe, it's like it's an illusion because she's always looking over her shoulder for her father to take her away, or for the Company, or the Government or, heaven forbid, _him_ to whirlwind himself back into her life and Claire knows that's what she's secretly dreaming of, why she keeps holding back on Andy even though they're supposed to be getting married.

Then again, Claire ponders as she gulps down the cool liquid, although it feels like it's burning her throat as she swallows, would _he _want to see her? After all of this?

Claire knows _he_ survived, knows _he's_ in Vegas somewhere, knows _he's_ wanted by the Government just as much as _he_ is, because of what they can do – what they _are_ – and because of so much more. She wonders if _he's_ ever forgiven her for not being strong enough. Not being strong enough to end it all that night and perhaps change the future they live in now. If it was her she'd hate herself, but Claire hates herself a lot these days anyway so that doesn't make much difference.

Except – she tips the remnants of the glass into the sink and places it on the side, rubbing a hand over her forehead – except _maybe_, just _maybe_ – and this thought brings the first inklings of a true smile to her face – _he doesn't hate her._ _He_ never used to hold grudges when she knew _him_ all those years ago and, chances are, _he's_ out there thinking about _her_ as much as she's still thinking about _him_.

"Sandra?" Andy's voice calls to her from the bedroom of their dingy little apartment above the diner, and Claire's heart drops into her stomach at the thought of what she's about to do.

"I'll…I'll just be a moment," she calls back, while in reality she's grabbing her coat off the door-hanger and her cell and some money out of Andy's wallet left on the side of the kitchen counter. Sure, she's going out into the freezing cold in just her PJ's and a reefer coat with nothing more than a name and a vague address as to where _he'd_ be, but she knows she simple can't stay here anymore, not while this question still hangs in her mind, in _both_ of their minds, she's certain.

_What if?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N: **Okay, I decided to continue this...although it's more of a sequel than a direct continuation. Hope you like!

**Warning:** Incest. If you don't like it, don't read it.

**Disclaimer:** Heroes doesn't belong to me, as I'd unrelate Peter and Claire if it did.

* * *

Peter had never forgotten that night at Kirby Plaza. Or rather, he had never forgotten _her_ that night at Kirby Plaza, so afraid – _so_ afraid that she was trembling as she held the gun in her hand. He found it strange with hindsight, to see such an innocent, breakable – although Peter knew she was anything but that – girl with something that could cause so much pain.

Then again, _he_ was the one who'd asked _her _to shoot him.

It was cowardly, he reflected, to force that decision on her like that. Just because he was too scared to put the gun to his head himself and end it, he'd asked her, knowing she'd do _anything_ he asked of her…Well, almost anything, as it turned out.

He shifted on the mattress; turning so he was lying on his back and could count the tiny speckles that were visible to him in the darkness – thanks to a man from Memphis. Niki stirred beside him but didn't wake, and it was that that made Peter get up from the bed, deciding to walk around for a while to clear his thoughts.

Because normal people, even those who could take on countless different powers and was wanted by the Government – his own _brother_ – for terrorism didn't dream of their dead niece at night; didn't dream of _her_ the way he did, golden curls falling around her face, bright grin and sea-foam eyes. But after five years of dreaming, Peter no longer felt disgusted with himself for these thoughts, instead, he revelled in them; it was the only time he felt truly at peace.

He felt more disgusted with himself for having caused her death in the first place. That's what the scar was there for, to remind him daily, nightly, constantly of a time and place where he _could_ have made things right, he _could_ have changed what had happened.

Somehow, his feet had bought him to the bar in the club, as they often did on nights like these. Niki's show had long since ended, but the bar was still open until dawn; a fact that Peter took full advantage of, as he turned invisible and poured himself a shot.

Drinking had become another habit of his, much like the dreams and the nightly wanderings. It allowed him more time to think of her, savouring each small memory in the way a drug-taker would savour his next hit, although it damaged him irreparably to the core.

Maybe it was the drink then, which caused him to suddenly see her form creep cautiously into the club; some sort of waking nightmare come to haunt him. His eyes followed her, and he noticed she was shaking, like the last time he had seen her, except this time it was from the cold, not fear. The rain outside had clung to her clothes, hair and skin, dripping softly on the marble floor.

With a jolt, Peter realised that he wasn't dreaming, nor was he drunk. _She was there; alive._

Her eyes scanned across the room and landed on him, and Peter shivered, realising he was still invisible. Her hair was darker now, and he could see she'd lost weight. With a sense of fascination, he watched as she held a small conversation with the bar-tender, before slipping into an empty booth at the back of the room. _She was there, alive. __Breathing._

Quickly, as if she would disappear within seconds, become a dream, a fantasy, once more, Peter crossed the room, seating himself next to her. She must have felt the presence next to her because her eyes turned towards him again, wide-eyed and bewildered.

"_Peter?"_ Her voice was a whisper, barely audible even to his hearing, but the sound was like a heavenly chorus to Peter's ears. _She was alive. He hadn't killed her. She was alive._

Slowly, he allowed himself to become visible, his eyes never leaving hers. His mouth became dry and it felt as though a vacuum had sucked all the oxygen out of the room, that all his energy had been sucked out of him with just that one word uttered from her mouth.

"_How?"_ He managed to choke out, wanting to embrace her but not knowing if he should, if his control could hold if they touched. It was then he remembered she was soaking and immediately offered her the overcoat he'd thrown on before leaving.

She accepted it with the faintest of smiles, seeming as careful as he was to make sure they didn't have physical contact.

"I am sorta indestructible," she managed to quip, wrapping the garment around her body closely. "My dad told me you lived in Vegas…I asked around."

Her gaze met his again and her voice wavered, "If…if you don't want me here –"

"Don't" – his hand covered her much smaller one in a heartbeat, entwining their fingers without a second thought, "Don't even think that. _God, _Claire, I thought…I thought you were…that _I'd_…"

"I know." That sad smile flickered onto her face; the one Peter remembered from when he'd bumped into her in Texas, the one that appeared in some of his dreams, before disappearing again as her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn't quite place.

"I'm…sorry." She said softly, and Peter was taken aback, couldn't believe those words had just come out of her mouth. Surely he was the one that needed to apologise?

He must have looked as though he was about to speak, as Claire tightened her grip around his hand, "Just – let me finish. I wasn't strong enough to – to…you know…_you know_. And I'm – I'm sorry."

Her words faltered as tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which Peter immediately wiped away, unthinking. The touch sparked electricity through his veins and everything else around him seemed to fall away.

All thoughts of Niki, of the Government and of consequences left his mind as he leaned forward slightly, his hand moving from hers to run gently up her arm and his breath tickling her ear, "_Don't be._"

Peter felt her inhale sharply, heard the mumble of his name die against her lips, and that was all the permission he needed. In one swift movement he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, sealing both their fates a million times over and feeling more at home with her small body flush against him than any time he'd been with Niki.

But Niki was still far from his mind as she wound her arms around his neck, kissing him back with a fervour Peter had only imagined in his dreams. All that mattered was her, _Claire_. She was alive and breathing and – _God in heaven he was going to hell _– and Peter was going to make sure it stayed that way.

She was alive and she was _his_, and it was going to stay that way.

* * *


End file.
